Malicious Melodies
by enaskoritsi
Summary: /Sasori x Deidara/ They deserted him since the beginning, teaching him that trust was a joke and to believe in anyone was a weakness. Then Sasori met Deidara, and he only proved that it was true. /AU/
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer : _I do not own Naruto or any of its characters.

_Author's Note : _This is a three-shot, with Sasori x Deidara starting the second chapter. The first chapter focuses on the childhood of Sasori. This is also AU, and I hope you enjoy it. Please review, if it isn't too much to ask.

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Malicious Melodies

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His parents were always running away.

Running away from problems, fleeting confrontations, hiding from the truth in the shadow of deception.

Running away from him.

The first time, it had been his mother on a downcast, rainy Tuesday evening. She stormed out of the house, grabbing her keys and angry red jacket, and the last thing Sasori saw of her that night was the glow of her headlights against the downpour. He heard the door of his parents' room slam like a scream through the dark, silent house, and it was the first time he felt truly alone.

He fell asleep at the window that night, one palm pressed against the cold glass, and that's where his mother found him. She cuddled her child in her arms and told him it was okay, and he blinked sleepy eyes at her.

"I thought you had gone away," he whispered, a child who was fearful about things he didn't understand. His mother laughed, and he didn't notice it then but it was remorseful, and promised,

"I'll always come back for you, Sasori."

The next time it happened, it was his father. He returned home from work earlier than usual, with the sun still grinning stupidly in the sky to brighten the way. Collapsing on the couch in front of his son, Sasori glanced up from where he had been watching the Saturday morning cartoons. Their shared brown eyes met, and before Sasori knew it, his father took his keys and his morbid black jacket, closing the door behind him with a furious bang.

His father loved to slam doors.

It became more common as years went on. Mother, father, father, mother; until Sasori just knew that when the keys jingled, his parents had deserted him. He spent his days and nights holed up in his room, playing with little action figures his father had bought him before the arguments started.

"Good morning, Sasori. Would you like breakfast?" A female one asked, and Sasori tilted her body until she faced the other.

"No thanks, Mom. I want to play outside with Dad."

The male figure jumped up and down out of excitement while Sasori mimicked a deep, strong voice.

"I can't wait, son!"

Sasori played with his toys often. He loved making them move and talk, having his parents say they loved him. Whenever they did leave the house, Sasori begged for more. He wanted a fireman, a teacher, friends. His parents would nod, throw him the plastic containers, and then grow irritated while they tried to choose a place for dinner.

Soon, Sasori had a whole city of action figures and dolls. As his mind started to mature, he wanted something more, a higher level of control, power. He yearned to break the boundaries, to sneak into new, forbidden territory. Sasori craved fulfillment.

"Mother, Mother!" he squealed once, pointing a display shelf on their path through the store. She turned back to him with a sigh, following his pointing fingers and the sparkle in his eyes.

Patting his head, she replied, "Sasori, puppets are expensive. We could buy...three or four other toys for that money."

"But..." his mouth gaped, because he had not yet learnt the process that parents called, 'no.'

"I'm sorry honey," she soothed, grabbing his hand and leading him away. "Maybe for Christmas, or your birthday. That okay?"

No, it wasn't okay.

Once he could get back to his room, Sasori slammed his door shut and leaped into his pile of companions. He tore off some loose threads from his bed, the rug, the laces off his worn out shoes. Attaching them to the flexible plastic limbs, he held the strings in his hands and laughed, pure happy laughter as he directed the doll in a sloppy dance. More laughter, more smiles when he attached more and more strings, flinging everything around his room in joy.

He never noticed that he had slammed his door.

Days and nights flew by, but Sasori barely noticed. He stayed locked in his fantasy world where everyone loved him, and nobody could ever run away. Keys would jingle every day, sometimes twice, and cars would race away, splashing in puddles on the wet pavement. Yet, Sasori had found his niche, a little hole where he could hide, and he could pretend that was enough.

"Sasori," a knock came at his door, and the boy's head shot up from where his other mother was on the floor.

"Yeah?" he answered, and what was supposed to be the real deal entered, closing the piece of wood behind her so she could settle on his bed.

Waving her hand towards him, almost as if she was swatting a fly, she instructed, "Come here."

Reluctantly, Sasori left his toy on the floor and obeyed, but once he did, his mother hugged him long and tight. He clutched her back, breathing in the scent that used to comfort him so many times. He had almost forgotten it. This, oh this was so much better than cold material arms that were too small to even take his hand. Real people, people who loved him, his parents; he'd missed it so much.

"Sasori," she whispered lowly, and he buried himself in her arms, hoping he'd never come back out, "you know I love you, don't you?"

"Mhm," he hummed, almost sleepy now.

"And you love me, too?" she inquired, her voice pressing and almost hard.

"Yeah," he muttered, "I love you very much, Mother."

He felt her smile. It lit up the room with a dazzling burst of light because it was so rare, and thus so precious. Sasori wished he could capture it for eternity and hang it on his wall like a picture. It wasn't fair that something so beautiful should be so brief.

"Remember that, please?" his mother continued, pushing him away and standing up.

"Wait!" he interrupted, jerking to his feet and wrapping his arms around her waist. "Don't go yet! Stay longer! We can play; just stay with me!"

She laughed uneasily, slight pity lacing her words when she said, "I'll see you later. I

have some things to do now, alright? Just remember what I told you."

She left them, her shadow lingering in the harsh white hallway before fading to gray and then molding into the blankness again. Sasori stood alone for a few minutes before grabbing the toy he'd dubbed his mother. Bringing his arm back, he flung it against the wall, watching in sadistic joy as the head popped off on impact.

"If you loved me you wouldn't leave me!"

Sasori cried alone that night. He whimpered because his mother left him alone again. His eyes teared because he'd destroyed the only true parent he had.

He didn't sob until he heard the keys jingle during the night.

She was gone by the morning. Her car was far off on some distant highway, and that red jacket was missing as well. Suitcases were taken from the storage room, and her clothes must have filled them because the closets were empty. His father took a look, cursed and let out a few tears, but just locked himself back in the room for what seemed like the thousandth time, dialing a number that wasn't going to be answered.

Sasori took his mother's replica, glued her head back on messily, and sat on the step, waiting. He played with the doll silently, not moving from his spot when the sun started setting and clouds took over the sky. Hunger and thirst didn't seem to matter. He moved the toy around and patiently waited for his mother to come back to him.

When the moon shone wearily in the sky, dying his red hair silver in its light, he fell asleep with his head against a cold, stone pillow. He didn't wake up until a few hours later, when the harsh screech of a slamming car door awoke him without care. Sasori sat up just in time to watch his father's gray car roll out of the driveway, and not even a wave goodbye was given as a going away present.

Sasori wobbled upstairs and found his father doll before he tumbled back down onto the porch. He settled the toys on his lap and hugged them endearingly.

Then he waited for his parents to come home.

Sasori waited for a very long time. Days flew by like carrion crows, and he only moved from his spot when absolutely necessary. Neighbors cast him odd looks, but none had enough interest to approach him, and he was happy that way. All he needed was the replacement parents who couldn't leave him, and wouldn't, until his real ones decided to love him again.

She came a few mornings later, gasping her way up the path and seeming so old compared to the flourishing green lawns. It took her forever to reach him, and when she looked up to smile at him, he wanted to cringe and turn away.

"Hello, Sasori."

"Hello, Grandmother."

She stayed there, and with each hour that passed, Sasori felt more and more uneasy. It felt wrong to have her there when his parents weren't home. She was taking over, rearranging the spices in the cabinets into alphabetical order, pushing the furniture around until it suited her style. Whenever he did come inside, he'd push himself against the wall she she wouldn't see him. Sasori would study her, watch her move.

He'd wish she would drop down dead.

One afternoon, about two and a half weeks after his mother's abrupt departure, his grandmother came out. He felt her presence behind him, but he did not speak. Closing his eyes tightly, for a moment he thought, 'I don't see you, you don't see me.'

"Sasori," she spoke, and he clutched his dolls tighter, feeling the miss-matched strings embed themselves between his fingers.

"You need to come inside."

A silence stretched between them, and Sasori clenched his teeth before jerking his eyes open.

"No," he grunted out, holding the plastic figures tighter, afraid they would crack. "I'm waiting for my parents."

"Sasori-"

"Shut up!" he shouted, stomping his feet against the steps. "Shut up! Shut up!"

"Sasori!"

"They're coming home!" he whirled around, angry with every part of her.

Her gray hair. Her ratty clothes. Her shocked face.

"They're coming back to me!" he shrieked, tears streaming down his face. "They'll see I waited! They'll see how much I need them!"

His voice broke, and the dolls, his puppets, fell onto the ground with a dull thump.

"They won't leave me ever again, not ever."

His grandmother stared into his shining eyes and wobbling lips, and maybe she realized finally that this was a child. Maybe that's why it made it so much easier to lie.

"Shush," she soothed softly, taking the unwilling child by the hand.

"They'll come back," she nodded convincingly, leading him inside. "It just might take a while, you know. There's...traffic, things like that. They wouldn't want you to get sick. You have to be all nice and healthy so they can play with you."

"Do you promise?" Sasori mumbled monotonously, looking up at her with eyes that seemed so dull for someone who should be so alive.

His grandmother gazed down at him and forced a smile.

"I promise."

Sasori found out one month later that his parents were dead.

His mother died in a simple car crash, easy as that. His father had died too. He'd been the one that hit her. Years later, when he was alone in his grand, empty house, Sasori would chuckle bitterly at the thought. They'd run away from each other, only to die together. Ironic how these things worked out, he'd think, ignoring the pain in his heart and the shaking in his hands.

Sasori left home when he was eighteen. He deserted his grandmother to decompose behind him, frail and rotten and needing a grandson to care for her. For what felt like the thousandth time in his life, he wished moments could last an eternity. He wished he could replay the very moment before his eyes every second of the day, her hands reaching out for him, gaze pleading.

"Don't go Sasori, please! I need someone!"

She deserved it. He didn't doubt that. Liars burned in Hell for betraying trust, and she'd suffer here before dropping down into that unforgiving furnace.

And when he met her there, he'd smile.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note : _Thank you very much for the kind reviews. I appreciate them immensely, and it motivated me to finish this more quickly. I hope it reaches your expectations, but I have a feeling I'm very bad at writing Deidara. :(

Please review, because I'd love to hear what you liked, and what I need to improve on. There's only one chapter left, so as I said, reviews will help get it up much faster. :)

Thank you for reading.

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Sasori grew up very bitter, and very twisted. He was angry at the world. He hated the bubbly children who played ball in the street. He loathed the loving couples who held hands in the park all day. Nothing could make Sasori see the good left in society. He saw lies everywhere, death in every blink.

He holed himself up in the cheap apartment he'd managed to rent, buying scraps of wood and making the puppets he'd always wanted. He never got them for that birthday. Sasori found comfort in his wooden companions. He hung them on his walls, sold them reluctantly in his small store for the money he needed to survive. Any free minute he had, he spent them on his puppets. And when he saw them, it was the only time he could feel anything but depression and loneliness. They were his, his everything. They would never leave him. He had learned how fleeting life was, and he despised it.

Then he met Deidara.

It was a frozen mid-day in December. Ice trickled down the streets and sharp hail plummeted down from the sky. Sasori clutched the bag of assorted wood to his chest protectively, pushing people out of his way on the street in order to keep it from being damaged. Nothing would upset him more.

"Watch it!" he groaned, viewing his package tumble into the dirty shush that lined the sidewalk. Mumbling words of frustration under his breath, he began shoveling the materials back into his bag, hoping they wouldn't soak up too much moisture. Twisting and turning to find the last piece, he had a snarl imprinted on his face when someone tapped him on the soldier.

"What?" he growled, surprised to see his wood a few inches from his face.

"Sorry," a somewhat amused voice called out from behind it. "Didn't mean to hit you, un."

"Whatever," Sasori snorted with a dark frown, not giving the other a second glance before storming back into the masses.

It wasn't until a few weeks later that they met again.

Sasori was sanding down a new wooden arm inside the studio at the back of his store when a racket broke through his windows rudely. Setting the piece down with a sigh, he walked outside, already irritable.

About five men were scattered around the building next to his own, which before the moment had been blessedly abandoned. Two were lifting in a scuffed table, while another had boxes stacked dangerously in his large hands.

"Be careful, un!" A voice called out, and the tone sent Sasori back, grated on his nervous. The owner stepped into view, cringing when he heard a crash.

"Hidan!"

The only reply he received was an infuriated grunt and a whirlwind of curses, and the man turned around with a sigh. When he opened his eyes again, they widened on the sight of Sasori, who had moved to return to his work.

"Hey!" he waved, running over with a somewhat cheery smile. "Didn't I see you on the street a while ago?"

Sasori arched an eyebrow, his hand already curled around the knob of his door.

"If you count crashing into me idiotically, then yes," he drawled, ready to turn the knob and escape back inside.

"Is this your place, un?" the other pried, trying to look inside through the slightly dusty window.

Sasori reluctantly divulged, "Yes."

"What do you do?" the intruder asked curiously, blue eyes widening with interest.

"Woodwork, art," Sasori replied shortly, "Puppets."

They stared at each other a few seconds, and then the other threw back his head and laughed, fully and whole-heartedly, in a way Sasori hadn't done for years. He felt himself grow envious involuntarily, and his fingers gripped the door-handle tighter.

"What are you laughing at?" he spat, while he watched the man push back the long blonde hair that had fallen into his face.

"It's just funny," he responded, crossing his arms casually. "You're talking about the exact opposite of art, un."

Sasori felt his hand relax, but his insides boiled with anger and indignation.

"This is ridiculous," he shot back, "You obviously don't know the truth about art you...brat."

"My name's Deidara," the impudent, now non-stranger, almost reprimanded. Then he grinned again, like he owned the world and everything was his to play with.

"And art doesn't come from puppets. They're grotesque, un. Art is fleeting beauty at its finest," he peeked at the store window, "Sasori."

Sasori's hand had slipped off the knob when Deidara turned away, waving over his shoulder as he returned to his property.

"Stop by if you ever want to actually see it, un."

Deidara opened locks that should have remained closed. His lecture about short, impacting art shook the foundation of Sasori's defenses. His ideals were what kept him together, like the strings that held his puppets. If anyone discovered that weakness, he would break apart into the needy child he still really was.

Sasori didn't want Deidara in his life, but he also didn't have much of a choice.

Sasori had winced the first time he entered Deidara's shop, because the bell attached to the door was obnoxious and piercing. He shut it quickly to stifle the sound, stepping inside carefully, as if he was standing in the middle of a minefield. Hopefully, if things went according to plan, he'd get in and out without being discovered by his new neighbor.

Sasori had his pride.

Inching over to the wall where a display case had been hastily arranged, Sasori's brow furrowed in confusion. He saw...fuses? Brightly colored packages stood out garishly against the glass, and he couldn't figure out what they could be.

"Fireworks, un," the answer noted behind him, and Sasori used all his self-control not to jump at the sound.

"Fireworks?" he repeated disbelievingly, and Deidara nodded ectastically.

"They shoot up into the sky, the only color in the inky darkness of night," he explained rapidly, brushing away the soot that had splotched itself on his cheek. His eyes seemed to glow as he went on, rambling and tossing his arms in the air with the passion of his words.

"Up and up, and then...bang!" he shouted, and this time Sasori couldn't control the wince as Deidara's voice echoed over the high ceilings. "Bursts of light; blue, red, purple, green, anything you could ever imagine! There, un, for a second, you can see it, but you can't grasp it, and because of that, it's art."

Deidara's chest was heaving when he finished, exerted from his tirade. Sasori had to admit he was somewhat impressed by the enthusiasm, yet that didn't change his mind.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

His opponent's gaze narrowed dangerously, and he placed blackened hands on his hips.

"What's the point?" Sasori pointed out lazily, gesturing to the items lining the shelves. "It looks nice for a moment, big deal. You're left with nothing, no way to remember it. It's pointless."

"No, that's the point," Deidara interjected. "You don't treasure what you see all the time, un. It has to be once in a lifetime!"

"Then it's not art."

Once again, the two found each other in a battle of the eyes, blazing blue meeting brown, which for the first time in years showed a spark of passion.

"I've wasted enough time here," Sasori broke the invisible competition, pushing Deidara out of his way and heading towards the door. His hand paused on the handle, and he turned back with a smirk to the still infuriated Deidara.

"Come by in case you ever want to see true art."

"Don't expect me, un!" the other called back, but all he was met with was the clanging of his own bell.

It was at that moment that it became almost like a game. Every customer that walked in was a victory, each one that passed by was a defeat. It was a weak, vapid competition, and both knew they had nothing to prove to the people who bought their work. Yet, for the first time in the longest time, Sasori felt almost excited to wake up in the morning.

"I thought I shouldn't expect you-"

Deidara rolled his eyes before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans.

"Don't be so cocky," he scoffed, obviously trying to keep his eyes from roaming over the walls. "It's just curiosity, un. You're ideas are still stupid."

Sasori turned away, placing the screws back into the drawer of his desk before stepping around it and heading towards Deidara.

"Don't break anything," he ordered cooly, and Deidara brushed past him arrogantly.

"Sure, Mom."

Sasori's demeanor jolted and his confidence was shaken for a moment, but he covered it efficiently.

"What do you...do with these things, un?" Deidara's inquisitive voice pulled him out of his trapping thoughts, and Sasori meandered to where he had wandered.

"They're usually bought by theaters," Sasori told him, "Some people just put them in their houses."

Deidara let out a chortle that he tried to smother, but the mocking sound still crawled out of his lips. He gestured a tan hand towards the lithe, perfectly carved puppet he had been analyzing.

"What a waste of space, un," he commented, and Sasori sent him a sizzling glare.

"You don't understand, brat," Sasori replied, staying stoic until Deidara's nonchalant,

"Enlighten me."

"It lasts," Sasori started, and Deidara snapped his head towards the other. "Throughout time and tribulations, art perseveres. It is there forever, to shine through new ages and before new people. Word of its glory spreads, and people may flock from all over to be dazzled by it. Art inspires generations, because it is always there, eternally. That's what makes it beautiful."

Deidara flickered his gaze back up at the puppet, and Sasori glanced at it fondly.

"Nah, don't see it, un," Deidara finally stated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully while Sasori scoffed. "But..."

He turned to Sasori, reaching out a hand in a friendly manner.

"I accept your view as a fellow artist, even as completely wrong one, un. I respect your work, even though I don't agree with it, alright...Danna?"

Sasori's eyebrows arched upwards, and he cocked his head in contemplation. Did he really want to take that step forward, into something akin to the friendship this foolish 'artist' was offering?

"Okay..." he grunted, content that he never had to admit to respecting the other's work, "brat."

Deidara's smile lit up the room, and Sasori captured it in his memory.

It happened very quickly from that point on, and yet it seemed very long when Sasori would think back. Whether he wanted to admit it, Deidara and himself had become friends, and it wasn't long before he looked forward to the daily debates between them.

Deidara stood for everything he hated, everything he had worked his entire life to hide from. He had exploded around him and lit everything into color when Sasori had been happy with browns and grays. The blonde was radiant, so much so that it sometimes hurt to be around him.

Sasori found himself growing happier every day, and it startled him. He had resigned himself to being miserable forever, and yet somehow fate had intervened. The winds had thrust an explosion into his hands, and now the golden and cerulean colors of the day also framed his nights.

"Clay?" Sasori repeated almost dumbly, watching Deidara scoop some of the white substance into his hands.

"Yeah," the other affirmed, smiling placidly at the feel of the earthy grains between his fingers. "I usually use them to hold the gunpowder for the fireworks, un."

"But these are..." Sasori trailed off, picking one of the intricately made figures, impressed by the delicate details carved into the hawk's wingspan. "These are actually good."

"They're better than 'good,' un!" Deidara announced proudly, voice tinged with annoyance at the other's downplay of his skills.

"And yet you blow them up?"

"Yes."

"And that's art?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever been committed?"

Deidara frowned, molding the clay between his hands, his irritation making his movements more rapidly paced.

"Give it a chance, Danna," he almost whined, cleaning one hand to snatch his bird away from Sasori.

"Here," he said, dropping a fresh pile of clay in front of Sasori. "Give it a try, un."

Sasori stared at it, wrinkling his nose in distaste before remarking, "Why? So you can destroy it?"

"Maybe," Deidara smirked cheekily, returning to his own kneaded supply.

The two worked in silence for a while, Deidara quickly molding out a magnificently carved head and several accomplished features. Though Sasori didn't plan to admit it, he was struggling. He wasn't used to such a pliable substance. The wood he carved was usually thick and inflexible, and this clay felt like soup seeping through his calloused fingers.

Deidara peeked over at him and laughed, dropping his work and crossing to the other side of the table, where Sasori was seated with agitation.

"You're doing it wrong, Danna," he pointed out carefully, watching Sasori's fingers mangle the clay into torn pieces. Before Sasori could snap back that clay with a worthless creative form anyway that required no factual skill, Deidara wrapped his hands around Sasori's.

"Don't fight it, un. Clay does what you tell it to," he instructed, moving Sasori's fingers to tame the substance into its perfect texture and density. Their fingers grew interlaced as Deidara controlled his movements, helping him into the motions. Sasori felt powerless, watching his hands react in a way he hadn't commanded. He felt his face grow heated, and at the same time, it just felt right.

Finally, Deidara stepped back, patted Sasori on the shoulder encouragingly, and with a quiet, "There, un," he settled back in his own spot peacefully. Sasori glanced up at him, but he was completely focused in his creation. He looked back down at his own clay and continued shaping it without a word.

It was the first time Sasori had been the puppet, not the puppeteer. He should of been infuriated, but he wasn't. That moment filled him with a tranquility he hadn't ever experienced in his lifetime, and if it had lasted longer, he might even have been able to call it art. It had been Deidara's art, elusive and capricious, and he was supposed to repel it. Instead his heart welcomed it, even as his mind shrunk away.

Similar instances, like a deadly poison, slipped into their time together, so surreptitious that Sasori hadn't realized them until they were constant. They touched, and they grew close, closer than they probably should have. There were so many danger signs shooting off in Sasori's head, alarms flashing behind his eyes and telling him to turn back, that he was reopening old wounds that had never healed. But all Sasori could see wherever he looked was Deidara, all Sasori could feel when he wrapped his fingers in that sunshine hair and pulled him close was Deidara, all Sasori could hear when he fell asleep at night was Deidara.

"Jeez, Danna, you must have some nightmares, un," Deidara whistled, examining the walls of Sasori's house with a picky eye and quite contradictory taste.

"Why do you say that?" Sasori asked, peering at a wall that contained one of his favorite puppets. Deidara looked at him as if he was sprouting multiple heads, gesturing at the wooden figure.

"How do you sleep with these things staring at you?" he puzzled, looking quite perturbed. "It's...creepy, un."

Sasori shrugged, stepping forward and dropping the work he had taken from his shop onto the floor neatly.

"It's nice to be surrounded by one's art," he began, "Well...maybe not your monstrosities."

"Watch it, Danna, or you might find out," Deidara teased, but Sasori shook his head to hide a smirk.

"You're a gracious guest, Deidara," Sasori spoke sarcastically, and Deidara just smiled. Sasori turned back to him just as it started, and he was stunned to watch the whole act unravel, to watch Deidara reveal an expression of just...absolute freedom and joy.

He stood there, a blinding sun that seemed to out of place in Sasori's dismal, dreary, house, with its darkly painted walls and scratched hardwood floors. There was something so, so different about Deidara, a uniqueness that had no words to describe it.

"Are you alright, un?" Deidara must've spoken, but he sounded so distant, miles and miles away.

"Danna?"

Suddenly, Sasori was right in front of him, and his hands were grasping his shoulders tightly. Deidara seemed surprised; neither of them could explain the abrupt change.

Their kiss made all the facts fall away.

It wasn't about how, but the fact that it was. Sasori kissed Deidara roughly, needing to understand what was so special about this human being, one of billions that roamed the planet. He held him close, as close as he could, because he had to feel him, to know he was real and that finally, finally, he wasn't alone anymore.

Sasori pulled away, and for the first time in over a long, loveless decade,

Sasori smiled.

And thrusting all the haunting specters of the past aside, two artists found what they wanted in each other.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer :_ I do not own Naruto or any of its characters.

_Author's Note : _Wow, I'm seriously disappointed with myself that it took me this long to finish this. Taking over nine months is really no excuse, and I apologize to anyone who waited so long for this final chapter. I can only admit that I have fallen out of the Naruto fandom for the most part, besides still holding a lingering love for Sasori and Deidara, and since they've both passed on, I've moved on to other things.

However, I found this unfinished file on my computer today, and decided that enough was enough. I finished this the best I could, and I'm afraid that I lost these characters a little. Still, I remembered my original intentions, and here they are. Even if it's not what you were expecting, I hope it gives this story closure.

Please do review, even though it's been such a disgustingly long time. When I originally wrote this, I really did love it, and I still want to know what people thought. Thanks for reading.

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Throughout his empty attempt at playing the facade of life, Sasori had learned the basics of love.

He had been told, by silky words written down by lonely, deprived authors, that the sun would shine six-thousand times brighter, only the rays never burned, instead only alighting the world in a ravishing glow. Hunched over in his desk during the last years of his education, trying to read with the troublesome shouts blasting through the air and to keep his book from becoming imprinted by the still wet marker that had been used to write obscenities over the wooden surface, Sasori had been told more. Love filled one with an overwhelming joy, the purest type of euphoria in which one could be run over by a speeding eighteen-wheeler truck and only smile through the horrific pain.

Upon experiencing it for himself, Sasori knew that was not what love caused life to become.

The sun was still an ostentatious orb that burned his skin until it matched his hair, and when automobiles refused to notice the short figure crossing the street, anger still boiled his blood and spilled a low torrent of threats from his lips.

The difference was that Sasori had someone to go home to, and now those minor irritations couldn't touch him.

He could trudge to his house, a building he often called theirs in the sanctity of his own mind, and no longer think of it as a decaying mausoleum. Inside was life, an abounding source of energy and passion. No longer was there a solitary shell of a man, more emotionless than the puppets he carved out of that which had been chopped into something lifeless. However horrible his day had been, whatever issues plagued him and drove him mad, Sasori could find shelter in a pair of welcoming arms.

Life was not perfect, not by a long shot, and that was where the sappy romance novelists and gossiping adolescents had been wrong. Love was not about turning life into a utopia; it was about the flaws, and how they could be overcome by something more powerful. It meant admiring certain bouts of unhappiness, appreciating them for what they were, and allowing oneself to grow because of them.

It was understanding the defects of life and living with them, mastering them, and recognizing them, sometimes in one's self.

However, Sasori had never been one for accepting mediocrity. If there was the slightest nick in one of his creations, he would sand it down with the utmost concentration until the surface was as smooth as true human skin. While he painted the elaborate faces, if one stroke slipped out of the predestined line, the entire head was reconstructed.

In this manner, Sasori found himself, more and more each day, absorbed by the shortcomings of Deidara.

Deidara was incredibly sloppy, and he often left his supplies scattered on tables and chairs for unsuspecting victims. His attention span was limited at best. One moment he could be lighting a fuse for testing, only to set it down on the counter to read an article in a frivolous magazine while Sasori hurriedly threw the firecracker out the window before it could detonate. The blonde could not cook, bubbling up horrid concoctions of spices Sasori had never heard of and spooning experiments on a plate that not even a starving man would touch.

Yet, there were certain imperfections that caught Sasori's attention further, holding it in an astounding grip that refused to yield.

Deidara talked in his sleep, small murmurs that woke Sasori just in time to catch a dreamy smile. He had a single freckle at the base of his neck, and when the sun decided to cast its spell, faint followers would trek across the brim of his nose. One of his eyes was ringed in a stormy gray, while the other was circled by an almost electric blue, but both were beautiful.

Love meant, for the first time since he'd been tossed into the world, that these things could bring Sasori joy.

The grass crumbled beneath two pairs of feet, one rushing forward with unsuppressed eagerness while the other plodded along with gloomy defiance. The evening sky stretched behind them, an inky violet canvas with a few daring stars glittering next to the beginnings of a moon.

"Come on, Danna!" Deidara called out, racing towards a towering hill and climbing to the top without effort. "Being slow just means you'll miss the best part, un!"

Sasori dragged himself after his companion, frowning at the way dirt clung to the soles of his shoes when he stormed to the top of the designated slope.

"A waste of time never has a 'best part,'" he grumbled, finally sitting next to Deidara, who had settled himself and tilted his head upwards towards the air-born stage. Deidara lazily shifted his gaze, cerulean eyes drifting down to meet two stubborn ones.

"Don't be such a hypocrite," he snorted, closing his eyes and leaning back. "I have to see those...things everyday, un. It's about time you saw my art, too."

"I allow you to see masterpieces," Sasori argued, impatiently waiting for the ridiculous spectacle to begin so it could end. "You're forcing me to see the product of wasting life with delusions."

Deidara's laughter rang out, probably matching in volume with what was to come.

"You'll see, Danna," he jibbed, poking Sasori in the chest with one foretelling finger. "By the end of tonight, un, you'll never look at those blocks of wood the same again."

"You're right," he agreed whole-heartedly, causing Deidara's eyes to widen. "I'll probably appreciate them a hundred times more."

Deidara rolled his eyes, suddenly sitting into attention as everyone silenced, the previous excited buzz dying into a tense soundlessness.

For a few moments, there was nothing in the air but the static buzz of anticipation. Then a single whisper of something fizzing was heard, followed by a long trail of glittering sparks shooting up into the sky. After disappearing for a second, it exploded to life in a boom, arches of gold raining down against the black backdrop. A general clearing the way for his troops, lines of fireworks followed, bursting into splatters of neon blues and bright greens.

As each rocket took a turn to try to dazzle, Sasori couldn't help but admire the beauty laid out before him. He felt appreciation for the contrast of the brightness and darkness, the way each firework burned and sparkled like a miniature sun. But as he watched, he could not enjoy it, because they faded all too quickly, leaving him with nothing but loss and a bad taste in his mouth. With every rocket that soared triumphantly through the sky, Sasori could only anticipate its death. The spectacle made his stomach turn, watching the other people around fawn and shout about their misconceptions of beauty.

He turned his head, unable to bear the display any longer, and his eyes settled on Deidara.

The boy had settled in the grass, lying on his back with his hands tucked behind his head. His eyes reflected the glow of the fireworks exploding overhead, shining silver and purple in the different lights. Deidara was grinning so widely that his face surely must've been aching, and he appeared so at ease amongst the raging booms that Sasori had to wonder if he wasn't brain damaged after all.

With every firework that was lit, freed to the skies, Deidara's joy only grew, becoming more palpable. Sasori could almost feel it, like electricity in the air. It hit him that this would never change. Deidara would never stop loving his foolish imitations of art, and he would never stop looking so beautiful watching his delusional dreams come to life.

No, fireworks and explosions were not art, but...maybe this...was, or could be.

Catching Sasori's gaze, Deidara, still smiling, reached out one hand, wrapping his fingers around Sasori's wrist and dragging the other down to lie next to him. Sasori grunted as blades of grass imbedded themselves in his cheek, rolling over onto his back. Immediately, Deidara reached out his hand again, intertwining their fingers together until the show was over. When the final firework faded, leaving only stars behind, Deidara sat up, looking down at Sasori with a triumphant smirk.

"So, what'd you think?" Deidara inquired, so proud that he almost seemed ready to puff out his chest with pride. "Amazing, un, wasn't it, Danna?"

After a moment, Sasori replied, "Interesting."

Deidara's eyes began to brighten with success.

"But still not even close to art."

As Sasori climbed to his feet, Deidara paced around him, throwing his hands into the air in a misplaced artistic fever.

"Not close to art! Not close to art? Did you not see those breathtaking explosions, giving you one second of heaven, one moment sheer beauty?"

Squeezing the bridge of his nose to reign in his temper, Sasori grabbed Deidara's arm in the middle of his passionate speech, dragging him towards the exit of the park.

"We'll just have to come back until you appreciate it, un," Deidara eventually halted his tirade, giving Sasori a mischievous grin. "You know, they have shows every Saturday."

Sasori snorted, his impatience growing as Deidara refused to move along faster.

"Not on your life, brat."

Life was good then, really good, and Sasori found himself becoming even further disillusioned that an existance was meant to be suffered through. His heart opened more to Deidara every day, even though the action terrified him. Occasionally, he would find himself staring at Deidara as they worked, himself on his puppets and the other with hands full of wet clay. He found that he was really falling in love with Deidara, an emotion that he had become unfriendly with for a very long time. It wasn't the beginning stage of love that he had already lived through, but the kind that ran deep, the one that would become beautiful because it would last forever between them.

Though he felt the feeling only growing more every day, Sasori was reluctant to say the words, to bring them to life. Disappointment and loss just simply couldn't be forgotten that easily, and such displays of emotion of any kind had never been his forte. He preferred to convey them maturely, the way he painted such anger or sadness into the eyes of his puppets, or the longing he carved into the position of their fingers.

Yet, in order to make things last forever, Sasori knew he would have to make them real. When the emotions of drawing away from his parents had consumed him, Sasori had hidden inside of pathetic attempts at puppetry, nothing like the control he had mastered now. He knew he could no longer indulge in such childish attempts, because by hiding away, he could only sit and watch until Deidara possibly left him.

It was morning, but the sun was just rising. Sasori stared up at the ceiling, as he had for the past few hours. His stomach turned with nervousness, fingers twisting in the sheets as he tried to stay calm. The mix of emotions were humiliating, but luckily Deidara was asleep and unable to witness them.

Dragging himself up to a sitting position, Sasori looked down at Deidara. He watched the sun play in the golden strands of hair. He took in the playful grin that couldn't be wiped off the other's face even in sleep. Instead of calming him, however, the sight only made him more nervous. When the blonde woke a few minutes later, Sasori was unable to decide if he was pleased or frustrated enough to scream.

Pushing locks of yellow hair out of his face, Deidara yawned as he sat up, giving Sasori a smile.

"Morning, Danna," he greeted, voice still only slightly slurred by sleep. He must've noticed the hard look on Sasori's face, because his mouth opened, undoubtably to ask what was the matter. Instead, Sasori interrupted him, holding up a hand to keep the other quiet.

"Alright, look," Sasori started, crossing his arms and turning his head towards the wall, not liking the amused expression growing on Deidara's face. "I won't allow this to inflate your ego, brat."

Letting out a grumbling sigh, Sasori forced himself to raise his head for the sake of his dignity. He watched Deidara's eyes grow wide as he continued speaking.

"Deidara, I lo-"

"Oh, ah, sorry, Danna!" Deidara suddenly interjected, leaping from the bed and racing around to find clothes. Yanking a pair of pants over his legs, he shot Sasori an unconvincing grin before burrowing around in a few drawers to find a shirt.

"I forget. I've got, un, a customer coming in early today. He placed a huge order for some, uh, firecrackers. So I need to get them together, un."

Jerking his feet into a pair of shoes, Deidara flashed another distorted smile at Sasori before pulling open the door and bounding down the stairs.

"I'll see you later, Danna!"

The last thing he heard was the jingling of Deidara's keys before he slammed the door behind him on his way out.

Sasori sat in bed for a minute, replaying the bizarre spectacle through his mind. Shaking his head with a scowl, Sasori stormed out of bed, angry at himself for wasting time and at Deidara for forcing him to do so. Glancing at the clock, Sasori ignored the twisting in his stomach as he headed towards the shower.

No one would be in a rush to pick up fireworks at four in the morning.

It was after that that things began to slowly unravel. The threads holding Sasori's happiness together were slowly unweaving, but as he had before, Sasori grabbed the strings to keep them from coming undone.

Unfortunately, Deidara brought up the topic on his own, the coiled excitement that always marked him strangely absent. He explained that his philosophy wasn't just that, a philosophy, but a way of life. He lived as he created his art, fleetingly and only temporary. Deidara had given him a rueful smile then, reaching down to ruffle the hair on Sasori's shorter head almost teasingly, refusing to change his expression even when Sasori pushed his hand away and warned him to remember their years.

"I can't be tied down, un," Deidara had said, forever gesturing his hands in a vain attempt to make his point. It was the first time Deidara's passion scared him. "It's not that I don't care for you, Danna, but if I stayed with you, our relationship wouldn't be beautiful. It wouldn't be art."

Deidara didn't pull away then, though. No, he stayed in Sasori's life just like he had before, as if nothing had changed. He visited in Sasori's shop, broke Sasori's puppets on "accident," and slept in Sasori's bed.

"Don't worry, un, it's not time for me to go yet," Deidara had continued on, despite Sasori's blank face. "It'll be spectacular when I do, Danna. We'll remember it for the rest of our lives."

However, when Sasori looked at Deidara now, he didn't see an opportunity, a promising future. He saw a past catching up with him, threatening to relive itself, and an upcoming darkness that promised him nothing at all. Yet he could not force himself to pull away, because he knew his art was strong, stronger and more real than Deidara's ever was or would ever be. Perhaps it would be strong enough to overcome the lunacy in Deidara's heart.

Still, he could not ignore that though the strength of their kisses never dwindled, in fact become more heated and desperate, their time together did. Deidara began to flee from his embraces, where once he had welcomed them and initiated his own, now as if Sasori were a cage bearing him down and crushing his spirit. He went out alone more, coming back covered with the burning acrid scent of ash and fire.

Sasori woke more than once to the sound of squealing tires outside his window, and a too quickly beating heart. He wondered why Deidara would stay if he supposedly knew where their path was leading. He wondered why Deidara had started this at all if he only planned to leave.

And though he expected it, the day Deidara was gone stunned him anyway.

He returned to his house after a long day of work, arms filled with unfinished puppet parts that he did not yet know he would need to survive the empty hours. Sasori dropped his work in his office, and only when he looked around the room did he notice the change.

There were no bags of sloppy clay littered in his corner. When he walked into the kitchen, there was no burnt food still sticking to the stove, and in the living room, the remote was carefully in its holder instead of stuck between the cushions of the couch.

Racing up the stairs, Sasori rushed into the bedroom, throwing open the doors of the wardrobe to find nothing but his own sparse shirts. He yanked the drawers of the dressers open, finding nothing of Deidara's bright garish clothes within them. The pieces of wood hit the ground with dull thuds as he backed away, unable to fight the childish panic building in his throat.

When he felt his back hit the bed, Sasori spun around, eyes widening. A small clay bird lay perched upon the pillows, wings spread and mouth open towards the sky. The eyes were painted blue, but only an artist would notice the different shades.

Picking up the figure in his trembling hands, Sasori stumbled back down the stairs through his house, tears slipping down his cheeks. He was a child again, waking alone in a house too dark and empty for him, buried in his grave before his tenth birthday. He wanted his strings, his old shoelaces even. He wanted to find Deidara, tie them to his arms and legs, and drag him back home again.

When he came to the front door, Sasori opened it with a free hand, the other cradling the bird to his chest. Passing down his steps without even a pause, he lifted his arm once his feet met the sidewalk.

The bird flew. It flew through the air for an everlasting second, wings wide against the blue sky. Then it hit the pavement, cracked into a thousand worthless pieces in the middle of the road. It only took a few minutes for a number of cars to race by, leaving nothing left but a pile of worthless dust.

Turning around to head back inside, Sasori wiped his face and refused any more tears.

It had never been art. It had never been art at all.


End file.
